


If You Believe In Nothing Else

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff and Angst, Foreshadowing, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fifth Battle looms on the horizon just ahead, and Fingon has come East to visit his cousins and plan their great offensive. </p><p>But tonight, Himring is quiet and still; tonight is the perfect time to talk, to love, and to forget, if only for a little while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Believe In Nothing Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



> Written for smaragdbird for the Not For Prime Time exchange 2013.
> 
> Hope you like it! Happy NPT :)

It wasn’t often quiet in Himring. The fortress’ position on the tall hill afforded wonderful views and a superior strategic location, but few were the days that some wind or breeze did not whistle around the tall towers and scurry in as drafts through the invisible gaps in the stone.

Tonight, though, all was quiet. Not a breath of wind stirred the air outside, and barely a movement broke the stillness within. The chamber was dim, with only one solitary candle lit, burnt down and almost drowning in its own pool of melted wax.

It was so quiet that all Maedhros could hear was his own breath, softer and slower than usual, combined with the quiet sigh of Fingon’s breathing from where his head lay resting against his shoulder. He could feel those breaths, too, a gentle brush of air across his collarbone. The rest of the room was heavy with silence, held in some kind of motionless limbo; the only movement the rise and fall of their chests and the tiny, intimate motion of Maedhros’ hand as he stroked the pads of his fingers over the inside of Fingon’s wrist where it lay across his hip. He watched the backward and forward motion of his own fingers as if it were hypnotic, and was as silent as the room around him.

After a moment or two more, Fingon stirred gently and murmured, “Do you really think it will work?”

Maedhros’ fingers shifted to drawing gentle circles, and he answered just as quietly, “I thought you were asleep.”

Fingon curled his fingers upward and poked Maedhros’ wrist. “Question. Answer.”

Maedhros didn’t need to ask what Fingon was talking about; they had spent the whole week talking about strategy, supply chains, terrain, armour and weaponry. “I think it will work,” he said quietly, his fingers continuing their motion undeterred. “I would not risk all that we have if I thought it more likely that we will fail.”

“More likely that we will fail,” Fingon imitated with a slight snort, “That’s not completely reassuring.”

“I don’t like to deal in definites.” Maedhros frowned. “I will not promise something of which I cannot be certain.”

“The promise of revenge and of a life of freedom is what brought our people back to these shores.”

“Exactly. We can see how well that turned out.”

Fingon shifted his head slightly to look up at Maedhros’ face. “Do you regret coming here, Maitimo?”

His cousin didn’t answer for a few moments. “No. I don’t regret leaving, and our cause was just. I just regret the way we left.”

Fingon’s laugh was mirthless. “Don’t we all?”

Maedhros’ fingers left Fingon’s wrist and moved slowly up his forearm, ever soft. “You know I regret more than that.”

Fingon caught Maedhros’ hand, and pressed it to his chest. “Maitimo,” he said, affection and a faint exasperation in his voice. “You know I have forgiven you a thousand times. For everything.”

Maedhros didn’t answer him, but looked down at their entwined hands for a long moment. “For everything,” he whispered eventually. “Everything. Yes, perhaps you have at that.”

“Ah, I shall have to think of something to stop you growing gloomy.” Fingon chuckled and leant up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, and then slipped out from under Maedhros’ arm and from underneath the covers. He slipped lightly across the room, his bare skin very pale against the dim almost-black of the room, and threw open one of the windows with characteristic abruptness. “It’s so _quiet_ ,” he said, leaning out of the window and inhaling deeply. “Usually when I open this window I am nearly blown backwards by the gale that comes howling in.”

Maedhros laughed quietly. “There isn’t always a storm here, you know.”

“Only most of the time,” Fingon grinned back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“It’s much warmer here, and much colder over there.”

“It’s very refreshing.”

Maedhros sighed. “Fine, I’m coming.”

He rubbed his arms only half theatrically as he crossed the room to where Fingon was waiting patiently for him. “Bracing might be a more apt description,” he said with mock sullenness.

“And in the middle of summer,” Fingon smiled, “I can’t imagine what it’s like in winter.”

Maedhros brushed his hand over Fingon’s exposed shoulder blades, tangling his fingers in black tresses. “You should stay one year,” he said quietly. “For Yule. For Midwinter’s Eve.”

Fingon leant back into his touch almost unconsciously, and closed his eyes. “I would like that.” His lips twitched up at the corners. “If I could ever convince my court that Himring is a fit place for the King to spend a whole season, that is. They barely tolerate my coming for a month as it is.”

“But you _are_ the King,” Maedhros pointed out. “It is their duty to obey.”

“As if that grants me much authority when it comes to them.”

“Well, travel is hard in the winter.” Maedhros’ tone was almost mischievous. “You could be trapped by an early snowstorm. It would be dangerous to leave safety.”

“They would see right through it.” Fingon turned, catching Maedhros’ hand and keeping it on his skin, resting it on his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t care,” his voice was quieter, “I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

Maedhros snorted. “I know you don’t. You never have.”

Fingon’s eyes gleamed. “And I never will.”

Maedhros smiled, a soft, genuine smile. His fingers curled gently around Fingon’s neck, black hair catching in them. “Tell me,” Fingon said quietly, “What is it like, here in winter?”

Maedhros paused for thought. “Wild,” he started, “Cold. Very cold. When the snows start in earnest, it becomes hard to go outside the walls. Then the ice makes sheets over the paving stones and it becomes a chore to go outside at all.”

Fingon smiled. “It sounds a lot like home.”

“But when the snow is settled and the wind has died down as much as it ever does, there is that peace, that snow-silence, heavy as a wool blanket draped over your head.” Maedhros moved to the window and rested his elbows on the sill, looking out into the night. The moon was high, and it painted the surrounding low hills and wide plains a deep silver. “That is the time we go outside. Some of the younger ones like to go out hunting for whatever small animals have braved the world outside their dens; it makes a good excuse to gallop at breakneck pace through the snow.”

Fingon laughed. “Dangerous, but exhilarating.” He moved closer and leant into Maedhros’ side, sliding one arm around his waist. “I remember two grown elves once indulging themselves in the same manner, during one of their earlier winters together on these shores.”

Maedhros smiled slightly. “You suggested it. I always thought they should call you Fingon the Reckless instead of Fingon the Valiant.”

“I may have suggested it, but you agreed!” Maedhros laughed quietly, and Fingon poked him gently. “Come, you were telling me about Himring in winter.”

“Yes.” Maedhros paused. “I would always insist one of my brothers came for Yule, since it is supposed to be a time for family.” He sighed. “Now, of course, I have to suffer through three of their presences, permanently.”

Fingon chuckled. “Look on the bright side; at least Macalaurë isn’t so bad.”

“When he doesn’t want to be bad,” Maedhros said darkly, causing Fingon to laugh at him again. Shooting him a look, Maedhros continued. “We have all the trimmings, as much as we can muster them; good food, a roaring fire, holly and mistletoe and nuts to roast. And we light the candles to honour the dead.”

“And the mead flows like water, I do imagine.” Fingon shook his head, “It sounds exactly like Yule at home. Maybe you should come and stay with me, also.”

“Maybe I will.” Maedhros glanced back into the room, to the table where a large map still lay open, held on the corners with the plates they had eaten their evening meal from. “After all this is over, perhaps.”

Fingon nodded slowly. “If all goes to plan,” he murmured, “If everything we hope for comes to pass, then we may have more time for all pleasurable pastimes, not least spending more time in each other’s company.”

Maedhros’ mood blackened as the thought of war reminded him of his brothers’ shameful return from Nargothrond. He had told Fingon earlier a more detailed version of the story than the one he had heard in Hithlum, though he had left out all of their screaming rows and the goblet of wine he’d thrown at Curufin’s head. “Tyelcormo and Atarinkë’s deeds have soured both Artaresto and Thingol against us,” he said darkly. “There are many fine swords in Doriath and Nargothrond, and now none will come to aid us. And it seems we will have no help from Turukáno either, locked away in his hidden city.”

Fingon turned to face him, so they stood chest to chest. “You believe, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a whisper. “You told me you thought it would work, this battle.”

Maedhros sighed heavily and slipped an arm around Fingon’s waist to mirror the one already around his, and drew the other closer, resting their foreheads together. “I believe we will prevail; if we are strong, if we do not falter, if we can muster all the valour and skill and stamina we will need. It will be hard. But I believe we can do it.” He let out another heavy sigh. “It would simply be easier with more men.”

“But think,” Fingon said softly, rubbing a gentle circle into the small of Maedhros’ back, “If we had their armies, we would have to deal with their Kings. Artaresto I can stomach, but Thingol…” He made a face.

Maedhros smiled. “I suppose there is that.”

“Maitimo.” Fingon was looking at him seriously now. “I believe,” he murmured, fire lighting the silver of his eyes, “I believe in this. That we can do this.” He caught Maedhros’ one hand from where his arm rested around him and gripped it tightly, holding it between them. “Moreover, I believe in us. We two have always been strong together.” He raised their entwined hands to brush his lips over their knuckles. “If you believe in nothing else–”

“Believe in us,” Maedhros finished. “I believe in no one more fiercely, Findekáno. There is no one I trust more than you, not even myself.”

Fingon leant up and kissed him softly, their hands remaining clutched together between their chests as Maedhros slid his other arm around Fingon’s waist. When they parted, Fingon’s eyes held a quiet, gentle tenderness. “Think no more heavy thoughts,” he murmured against Maedhros’ lips, “The night is quiet, and for now we have peace. Come back to bed with me.”

Maedhros followed him willingly, putting all thought of war and death from his mind as decisively as he blew out the guttering candle. He left melancholy behind and for once allowed himself to dwell only on peace; on the softness of the mattress beneath his body and of the pillow beneath his head, of the stillness of the night and the sleeping fortress around him. And most of all he lost himself in the one lying beside him; the delicate patterns the moonlight drew on his bare arms and shoulders; the low, almost melodious sound of his breath drawing in and out; the warmth of his body pressed close next to him; and the heady, subtle scent of his midnight-dark hair arrayed over the white pillows. Oh, how he would miss him when he was gone. But he wouldn’t allow himself to think of that, not now.

For now he was here, and if what they desperately hoped for came to pass, perhaps they would soon spend every night lying safe in each other’s arms. But all Maedhros really hoped was that in the end, the world around them would be more often at peace as it was this night. 


End file.
